


Accommodating

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, Locker Room, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:35:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24288235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Then again, Takao reflects, he thinks it would take someone a lot less human than one of the Generation of Miracles to turn down the offer of a more-than-willing blowjob." A desperate Takao finds Midorima more easily persuaded than he expects.
Relationships: Midorima Shintarou/Takao Kazunari
Comments: 20
Kudos: 129





	Accommodating

Midorima is always careful with his hands.

Takao supposes he can’t fault him for this. If  _ he _ had a godlike reputation for skill in a sport that relied entirely upon the accuracy and strength of his fingers he thinks he would give up on touching anything at all other than the basketball that so adequately demonstrates that ability. If anything he’s more impressed at Midorima’s willingness to hold both lucky items and eating utensils in his left hand, carefully bandaged or not, and he’s not about to expect an exception for himself. He’s more than aware that the relationship he has managed to stumble Midorima into is better luck for him, at least, than anything Oha Asa has ever predicted, and Takao is the last person to complain about a windfall on the order of Midorima Shintaro indulging him in whatever intimacy Takao suggests at any time other than just before an impending tournament.

Then again, Takao reflects, he thinks it would take someone a lot less human than one of the Generation of Miracles to turn down the offer of a more-than-willing blowjob.

He’s verging on desperate. There’s less than a week to go until their next official game, and any hope Takao has of claiming some part of Midorima’s evenings is strictly on hold until the match is over. Takao still thinks this is unnecessary—Midorima has so many hours of practice written into the motion of his wrist, and arm, and shoulder that he hardly needs the extra repetition to confirm what must be all but a reflex by now. But Takao learned early on not to argue with Midorima, at least not with any hope of actually winning his point, and so he has resigned himself to sitting at the side of the gym long hours after the rest of the team has dispersed and watching Midorima shoot shot after shot after shot in perfect, unflinching arcs through the air.

It’s not unpleasant, honestly. Takao has had plenty of time to grow accustomed to the unbelievable precision of Midorima’s cross-court baskets, but his complete faith in the other’s accuracy has done nothing to soften the stark beauty of watching a human perform such an outrageous feat dozens and hundreds of times in succession. It might be easier to take if Takao appreciated it less, he thinks; but by the end of the third night of extra practice he’s trembling more with anticipation than exhaustion by the time their upperclassmen are filing out of the doors to the gym, and the time it takes for Midorima to work through his usual round of extra practice feels to Takao like nothing so much as the aching, endless build of edging.

He’s barely coherent by the time Midorima is sending the last basketball swishing through the hoop at the far end of the gym, and once they’re stepping through the doors to the locker room Takao knows absolutely he’s not going to last for the bike ride that will take them to a more private location. He’s just going to have to take the risk, he thinks dizzily, some part of his heat-drugged brain stirring with unacknowledged excitement at the danger, however low, of getting caught; and then he’s skipping forward to follow Midorima through the door, and reaching to catch at the sweat-flushed heat of the other’s arm, and blurting: “Oh my god Shin-chan  _ please _ let me suck your dick” in a breathless rush that he will consider being embarrassed about when he has the mental clarity to do so.

Midorima jerks at the sound of Takao’s half-strangled words, his eyes opening wide with shock as he lifts a hand to push at his glasses, as if maybe it’s the fault of his poor vision that he thinks he heard what he did. “ _What_ —” he starts, but Takao is on him already, fumbling a hand against Midorima’s shirtfront to push him back against the wall alongside the door and following him in on legs that seem to be rapidly forgetting the basic premise of standing. Midorima falls against the wall without resisting, still looking too shocked to be embarrassed, and Takao comes in against him to press the damp heat of Midorima’s shirt close between them as he covers Midorima’s parted lips with his own. Midorima makes a sound in the back of his throat, an exclamation muffled incoherent against the weight of Takao’s lips, and Takao offers a groan in return, easing his mouth open so he can pour the heat of the sound back over Midorima’s tongue.

He can feel the sharp inhale Midorima catches through his nose, can parse the exact moment surprise gives way to understanding as clearly as he can feel the tense line of Midorima’s body soften against his own. Midorima’s right hand comes up to grip at Takao’s bare arm, his thumb tightening to intention before he pushes to urge the other away from the heat of his mouth. Takao can hardly open his eyes for the shaky want trembling through the whole of his body.

“Takao,” Midorima says, and probably he means to sound stern but the weight of his voice veers sideways into sultry instead. Takao has yet to tell the other that his chastisements inevitably have a tone better suited for the filthiest of dirty talk, or to volunteer exactly how many times he’s gotten off to the memory of some frowning judgment against Midorima’s lips. Then again, maybe that says more about Takao’s tastes than anything else. He’s not complaining, anyway. “You cannot  _ possibly _ be serious.”

“Totally wrong, Shin-chan,” Takao says, so manic-bright that he would be laughing if he didn’t patently lack the breath for it. “If you don’t tell me to stop I’m going to get on my knees right here.” He presses his lips together to force himself to draw a slightly slower breath through his nose to ease the rapidfire pace of his heartbeat. He isn’t sure it helps much. “Okay?”

Midorima does not look appear particularly persuaded by Takao’s admittedly incoherent attempt at explanation. His eyes are still wide, his mouth still so easy on shock that his lips have parted from their usual stern line to go soft with the lingering heat of the kiss Takao pressed clumsily against them. It’s only practiced optimism that lets Takao go on searching Midorima’s expression for some indication of surrender to his suggestion, as the fingers at his arm tighten to a grip that would be painful if Takao weren’t so turned on that all he can parse of the pressure is the raw physical contact, the proof of closeness bruising itself into the flex of his bicep. Any moment now Midorima is going to scoff over tension in the back of his throat, is going to lift his chin to call down impenetrable glare to hide his gaze and tell Takao to  _ be serious, Takao, we have school tomorrow_, and Takao will have to go lock himself in a bathroom stall for a hasty jerk-off just so he can manage the ride home. Midorima’s head tilts up, the light skates across the lenses of his glasses, and Takao watches illumination block his eyes because at least he has the dignity to face his loss head-on.

“If you must.”

It takes a minute for Takao to understand what his ears have just heard. Even once he’s fit the words to meaning he doesn’t move for a moment, as self-doubt flares into a real concern that he might be outright hallucinating. He blinks, opens his mouth to ask for confirmation, to double-check that he  _ really _ heard what he thought—and then his eyes catch at Midorima’s face, at the arch of cheekbone just beneath his light-hidden gaze, and Takao’s racing thoughts stumble themselves into shocked stillness instead. Midorima is flushed with exertion, his skin slick with sweat that has darkened the hair at his forehead and over his ears nearly to black; but the color spreading out over his cheeks has nothing to do with past-tense effort and everything to do with what might come. Midorima is  _ blushing_, pink giving way to an impressive shade of scarlet as Takao stares at the color blooming under his skin, and while Takao gapes in silence Midorima turns his head to the side and lifts his left hand to push sharply at the dark frames of his glasses.

“I have no expectations, of course,” he says, with painfully precise formality. “If you’ve changed your mind—”

“ _Ah_ ,” Takao blurts, and shakes his head so hard his vision blurs with it. “ _No_ , no Shin-chan,  _ absolutely _ not, if you’ll let me I’ll—” and he’s moving, acting as quickly as he’s speaking so his offer writes itself in the bend of his knees and the slide of his body as he drops to the floor in front of Midorima’s practice-worn basketball shoes. Over his head Midorima sucks in a sharp breath, the air hissing as he draws it into his nose, but Takao doesn’t look up. He’s reaching out with both hands, heedless of the lingering hold Midorima still has on his upper arm as he pushes up at the hem of Midorima’s shirt so he can catch his fingers under the elastic of the other’s shorts and pull them down Midorima’s hips.

Midorima hisses an exhale as Takao gets his clothes free, as if caught off-guard by the speed of the other’s action, but Takao doesn’t look up at the strain of surprise under Midorima’s breath or the self-conscious tightening of the fingers holding to his arm. He’s got Midorima in front of him, his thighs damp with sweat and his cock just starting to swell heavy with arousal, and Takao’s lashes are dipping, his throat is tightening with a surge of heat he can feel tremble down his spine and flex his balls tight against the base of his cock in his tented shorts. Takao drops his hold on Midorima’s shorts, leaving them to catch around the awkward angle of the other’s knees while he braces one palm at the top of Midorima’s thigh to pin the other back against the wall. The other reaches out, fingers quivering anticipation even before they curl around the shaft of Midorima’s cock, and while Midorima is hissing an inhale Takao is opening his mouth, and leaning in, and drawing Midorima past his lips and down over the wanting heat of his tongue.

Takao’s lashes flutter at the first press of his lips fitting against Midorima’s cock. Midorima’s still only half-hard, though he’s quite rapidly rising to the occasion Takao has so desperately thrown them into, and there is a soft give to the weight of him that demands the whole of Takao’s attention tighten around the gentle hold of his lips and the stroking slide of his tongue. Midorima’s body is hot with exertion, radiant with the effort he spent practicing and salty with the clean sweat of a recent workout, and from his angle on his knees Takao can breathe in the almost-sweet of Midorima’s body to fit to the salt-heat against the tongue rapidly persuading Midorima to full hardness in his mouth. Takao slides back by an inch, rocking away only to offer the stroking glide of his lips pulling across Midorima’s shaft, and when Midorima hisses a sharp inhale in answer Takao savours the tension of satisfaction it tightens in his chest even as he ducks his head forward again to pull Midorima weighting against the full flat of his tongue. Midorima fills his mouth entirely, from the set of his pursed lips all the way back into his mouth, until Takao can feel the salt-burn of him at the very top of his throat better than he can catch the taste at his tongue. Takao curls his fingers in against the angle of Midorima’s hip, and slides his other hand down so he can wrap his first two fingers to a bracing hold at the base of the other’s cock, and then he shuts his eyes, and he gives himself over to the pleasure of sucking Midorima off.

Takao loves having his mouth on Midorima. He’ll take anything he can get, whether it’s a kiss stolen from the drag of the frown Midorima wears like habitual armor, or a lingering, adoring exploration of the shape of Midorima’s fingers sucked gently into the clasp of his mouth, or a rushed, surreptitious touch of his tongue to the back of Midorima’s neck while the other is kneeling to tie a shoelace and Takao is bending into an excuse for the motion that will hide the contact from anyone who might casually glance their way. Takao likes the taste of him, the heat of his skin, the edge of sweat that proves the effort that polishes his gameplay to such seemingly inhuman perfection; and he likes giving over the usual teasing laughter in his throat for the far greater sincerity that finds itself curving gentle kisses at his lips and offering the truth of adoration at the shape of his tongue. Most of all, Takao thinks, he likes this: setting aside the constant, ceaseless, wonderful battle he has just to follow in Midorima’s wake to give in to the impulse that strikes him with every flex of Midorima’s wrist, every extension of his arm, every arch of his perfect hands, and simply drop to his knees and offer what worship he can make of his lips, and tongue, and throat.

Takao is only distantly aware of Midorima’s response over him, hardly hearing the sound of Midorima’s breathing catching onto stifled groans and barely aware of the flex of Midorima’s shoulders as the other leans back into the support behind him, as he flattens his left hand against the locker room wall to stifle the tremor running through his fingers. Takao doesn’t need anything beyond the immediate feedback of Midorima swelling hotter over his tongue, of the dull throb of want pulsing a heartbeat beneath the steadying grip of Takao’s fingers around the other’s shaft. On some level Takao supposes perhaps he ought to be amused at how instantly Midorima responds to his touch, at how rapidly the other goes from frowning disbelief to shaky-kneed heat at the least contact; but Takao would prefer to take Midorima’s instant responsiveness as a compliment to his own skill, or at least his own appeal, and he doesn’t have much room to tease when he thinks sometimes that he could come untouched if Midorima so much as glanced his way in the middle of his extended practice sessions. So Takao keeps his lashes weighting his gaze to shadow, and lets his heartbeat thunder in time with the cresting rush of Midorima’s arousal, and when Midorima’s hips pulse up off the wall for a moment of uncontrolled want Takao feels the satisfaction of it in the tension of pleasure straining his own cock at the front of his loose shorts. Takao angles his knees wider apart, tips his head to the side to take Midorima farther back into his throat, and it’s as his lips are just pressing wet heat against the grip of his fingers that there’s friction ghosting against the back of his head.

Takao opens his eyes at once, the smooth rhythm of his motion stuttering to a halt with the sheer surprise of the contact. It’s not as if Midorima never touches him—he still has that bracing grip against Takao’s arm right now, even—but it’s exactly that that shatters Takao’s focus and the dedicated attention of his bobbing head. Midorima’s hand is gripping against his arm, the fingers of his right hand digging in over the muscle of Takao’s shoulder to keep him still; and his other hand, his  _ left _ hand, is feathering into Takao’s hair, tape-wrapped fingers shifting to cradle the shape of Takao’s head with deliberate, studied care.

Takao can’t breathe, his eyes are wide and his mind is blank and his pressing lips have gone soft and startled against the heat of Midorima’s cock; and then Midorima’s palm is cupping the back of his head, Midorima’s thumb is fitting just over his ear, and Takao’s head is ringing as if he’s on the far side of his orgasm instead of the close edge of it, his mind blank and dizzy with this unlooked-for intimacy. He can hear the breath Midorima takes over him, can feel intention shift fractionally in the fingertips bracing against his scalp; and then Midorima pulls against him to urge him nearer, and Takao obeys, not thinking, not hesitating, as if the whole of his body has been compelled to instinctive surrender by the contact of Midorima’s hand against him. His grip slides free, his hand drawing up to flatten against the tension of Midorima’s stomach instead of around his shaft, and as Takao softens his jaw and eases the tension in his throat Midorima strokes forward and into him to fill the surrender of Takao’s mouth with the full heat of his cock. 

There’s a moment of dizzy connection, as the certain hold of Midorima’s open grip overrides Takao’s instinct to pull back, to ease the pressure in his throat, to gasp against the breathless force against him. Then Midorima’s hand shifts, his thumb tightening almost imperceptibly against the side of Takao’s head, and Takao moans before he can decide whether he wants to or not. His throat tightens, thrumming with the heat of the arousal braced at Midorima’s fingertips, and Midorima makes a sound so raw and unstudied Takao wouldn’t recognize the other’s voice if his entire body weren’t already resonating in time with it. Midorima’s wrist shifts, the strength in his arm flexing as his hips jerk with involuntary instinct, and Takao can feel the pulse of Midorima’s orgasm against his lips at the base of the other’s cock, can follow it along the wet heat of his tongue and all the way back to where Midorima is coming down his throat. He groans again, helpless to his own arousal, and Midorima’s voice breaks high and pleading as he shudders into the vibration of the sound. Takao’s fingers clutch against Midorima’s hip, his lashes struggle under their own weight, and for a brief, dizzy infinity his whole existence is tuned to the pleasure of drawing Midorima’s orgasm from him.

Takao isn’t the one to pull away. That motion comes secondhand, when Midorima has freed his hold on Takao’s shoulder so he can brace the other’s head between both palms and ease him back. It’s only as Midorima is sliding over his tongue that Takao feels the burn in his chest and drags a suddenly desperate lungful of air into his nose. His throat is achy, protesting this rougher use than what it is used to, but Takao still keeps his hold on Midorima’s hip and keeps his mouth against Midorima’s cock until the urging of the other’s grip forces him to fall back to his knees and pant air into his aching chest. Midorima lets him go as soon as Takao has retreated, freeing his hold so he can pull his shorts back up around his hips, and Takao twists against the floor so he can fall back against the support of the wall alongside Midorima’s braced-out feet.

“Yeah,” Takao says, and his voice is ragged with friction, with the lingering heat of Midorima coming down his throat, and he’s reaching for his shorts without looking as he fumbles the waistband down so he can find the heat of his cock. “I’m going to be fantasizing about that for a  _ month_.” His hand fits around his shaft, thumb and fingers curling into a familiar hold, and Takao nearly groans just with the promise of imminent relief as he drops his head back against the wall behind him. “Give me like fifteen seconds and then we can take a shower.”

Midorima huffs a breath of protest over him. “ _Takao_.”

“Sorry Shin-chan,” Takao gasps, already working his hand into the swift pulling strokes that will bring him off with greatest speed. “There is  _ no _ way I’m going to last until I get home. Seriously, five seconds and I’ll—” and then his voice breaks off, because Midorima is dropping to a knee next to him and Takao is very suddenly confronted with the full force of the other’s glare. Takao blinks, his rhythm briefly interrupted by shock, and in the gap of his own surprise a hand closes tight on his wrist. His grip slides free immediately, before he realizes what is happening, and by the time Takao is yelping protest Midorima has his hand pinned to the wall over his head and unfortunately distant from his aching cock.

“Oh come  _ on_, Shin-chan,” Takao groans. “What do you have against me getting off?”

Midorima lifts his hand to push his glasses up his nose. His face is still flushed with heat; when he speaks his voice is low and dark with the same. “Why do you presume I have any objection to your satisfaction, Takao?” Takao blinks, overwhelmed into brief speechlessness by the sheer intensity of Midorima’s presence, and then Midorima is leaning in and his mouth is neatly interposing itself atop any reply Takao might make. Takao’s lashes flutter, his throat volunteers a whimper; and then friction brushes the throbbing want of his cock, and his whole body flexes as he groans open-mouthed against Midorima. Midorima’s tongue fits between his lips, sweeping out to fill Takao’s mouth with the heat so recently lost, and there is pressure closing around Takao’s cock, the texture of well-taped fingers fitting to a certain hold on him. Takao is gasping, is moaning, the only reason his voice isn’t echoing off the locker room walls is from the catch of Midorima’s lips pressing against his own; but he has his other hand still free, and he’s reaching up to fumble at Midorima’s shoulder and pull against the other’s shirt until Midorima takes the hint and separates them enough to free Takao’s mouth.

Takao comes out talking. “Please,” he’s gasping. “Please, I just want to, I just want to  _ see_—” and he’s ducking his head to  _ look_, to see the impossible reality of more overheated fantasies than he’s entirely comfortable admitting to. His knees are canted open, his shorts shoved roughly down his hips to catch awkwardly around his thighs, and he’s breathing so hard his inhales are whining in his throat. But he doesn’t care what sounds he’s making, doesn’t care how flushed his face is and how utterly obvious his desperation is, because Midorima’s hand is curling around him, his fingers are flexing to a perfect, unflinching hold on Takao’s cock, and Takao can feel the impending force of his orgasm sliding free of his control, urging up and out of him in answer to the demand of Midorima’s hand stroking over his cock.

“Oh god,” Takao blurts, watching Midorima jerking him off, feeling his entire body going distant and slack with anticipation. “Oh, oh god, I’m—” and he looks up to meet Midorima’s gaze on him, dark and intent and focused like Takao’s a goal, like Takao’s victory, like Takao’s the only thing in the whole world.

“Ah,” Takao gasps. “Shin-chan.” Midorima’s breath huffs, his grip shudders tighter, and Takao’s back arches, his head dropping back to thud against the wall behind him as he moans over a helpless exhale and comes, and comes, and comes. He can’t stop, can’t think, can’t see: there’s just the heat, rushing over and through him in wave after wave as his voice breaks, as his throat tightens, as his breath fades off and  _ still _ he’s coming, mouth open and lips parted around breathless, voiceless heat. His fingertips are tingling, his vision is blurring, his body is shaking; and Midorima goes on holding him, his hand bracing Takao’s arm to the wall and his shoulders tipped forward to shadow him and the rhythm of his motion unflinching and absolute as he draws Takao through his endless orgasm, until finally the vice grip of pleasure eases and Takao can collapse slack and spent back against the locker room wall.

For a long minute there is no sound in the locker room but the gasping rush of Takao’s breath overlaid against the only fractionally slower pace of Midorima ducked in over his shoulder. Takao feels like all the strength has drained out of his body along with the release of the tension that has been building in him for what feels like hours; when Midorima loosens his hold on the other’s wrist Takao’s arm falls heavy to his side without any effort on his part to catch the weight. Takao doesn’t protest when Midorima carefully extricates himself from the sticky grip he has on him; he just shuts his eyes, and lets the wall support his slack weight, and fumbles for something to say into the quiet of their tangled breathing.

What he comes up with, eventually, is “Sorry,” though the word falls so breathless that Takao thinks it really lacks much sincerity, and whatever is there is further undermined by the huffed laugh that breaks itself free from his throat a moment later. Takao lifts his head from the wall so he can bring his gaze into focus on Midorima, still kneeling beside him but now with his head ducked down as he wipes his tape-wrapped fingers against the bottom edge of his shirt. “That probably wasn’t part of your plan for the evening, was it, Shin-chan?”

Midorima lifts his right hand to push the frames of his glasses farther up his nose. “It fell somewhat outside my expectations,” he says. Takao grimaces half-hearted apology, which Midorima doesn’t see before he takes a breath to go on speaking to the effort he is making with the hem of his shirt. “Not that I am opposed to the result.”

Takao blinks at him. It takes him a moment longer than it ought to make sense of what Midorima is saying, a fact which he chooses to attribute to the incandescent orgasm that briefly eclipsed his sight, and thought, and every function of his existence beyond the experience of raw physical pleasure. He’s still staring when Midorima gives over his efforts with his hand and lifts his gaze to look up over the top of his glasses at Takao. Takao doesn’t know what expression he’s wearing—he doesn’t exactly have the time or the mental attention to take stock or control of it—but he doesn’t have to know what he looks like to see the way Midorima’s gaze flickers over his eyes, and across his face, and touches the weight of dark-lashed attention at his mouth for a long moment before he turns away to look firmly at the wall again. “We ought to clean up.”

“Oh,” Takao says; and then, as the thought of hot water and Midorima’s bare skin present themselves in quick succession: “ _Oh_ , yeah, definitely.” Takao fumbles a hand against the floor to brace himself in the effort to find his balance while he pulls his shorts back into alignment around his hips. Next to him Midorima gets to his own feet with such grace that he must be turning his entire attention to it. Takao has somewhat less dignity and significantly less coordination in his still-shaky knees; he struggles for a minute before Midorima clears his throat and Takao looks up to find a hand extended towards him, palm turned up and taped fingers held out in offer.

Takao looks up at Midorima’s face but Midorima isn’t watching him; he’s turned aside, looking towards the other side of the locker room as if all his attention is already on the waiting showers, but the angle isn’t sharp enough to completely hide his face, and Takao knows where to look to see the flush of giveaway color rising in the other’s cheeks. He feels his mouth tighten, feels the beginning of a laugh tense heat in his chest; and then he ducks his head to hide his smile, and reaches up to clasp Midorima’s hand in his. Midorima’s grip tightens around him, Midorima’s arm flexes, and Takao is pulled to his feet with effortless grace. Midorima lets his hand go as soon as he’s standing and turns to walk towards the showers, and Takao is left to skip faster in his wake to catch up to him.

“You’re going to have to rewrap your fingers,” he volunteers as he draws up alongside Midorima’s longer strides. “The tape’s sticky.”

Midorima snorts in the back of his throat. “Of course I will,” he says. “Idiot.”

Takao tips his head to the side to slant a smile up at Midorima. “I could help you,” he offers. “It’s at least partially my fault, after all.”

Midorima glances sharply at him. “Partially?”

Takao grins. “Completely,” he says, and reaches out to catch his fingertips against the tape binding Midorima’s. “But you know I appreciate the sacrifice.” Midorima huffs again, and turns his head away to hide his face behind his hair; but against Takao’s hand his fingers are lacing between the other’s, and when Takao curls a gentle hold against Midorima’s hand Midorima’s grip is just as sure in answer.


End file.
